Seedy bread

This week, the inquest into the death a beautifully lovely girl began-she was a former student of mine. She was a rare, exceptionally kind, bright, well-loved girl. I wept a lot when she died; I’ve cried a lot this week. And I’m just a former teacher who liked & admired her. I cannot fathom the pain & heaviness for her family & friends. This is my thought today:

It’s sunny today.

But I can’t stop thinking.

She’ll never feel the sun again.

Because she’s dead.

All because of

a piece of seedy bread.

Faithful hands

Why,

when I fell asleep

turned away from you,

do I wake with

our legs entwined,

my hand in yours,

and a smile on my face

when I feel this?

God bless my wiser,

faithful, hands and heart

for remembering the truth:

I Love You

far far more

than I’m (trying

to be) annoyed.

Image: David Lester-Bush

Different Loves

It transpires that I am a big fan of love triangles & love choices: Mansfield Park, Persuasion and down the less sophisticated end of the Literary scale, The Hunger Games & Twilight.  I love critiquing the choices these women make (ugh, Bella, yay Katniss & Fanny Price!) because I believe ultimately Love is a choice. So here’s a short poem trying to articulate how these heroines, & real life people since time immemorial, can love two people, & love the very things that make them different-& then make a choice to love & live with one.
The love she has for him sparkles and fizzles with bright energy,
Like a crackling fire,
Bright, warming, comforting and hot…
But releasing the occasional spark that may burn her skin & heart.
Watching for these is wearying.
The love she has for him flows and melts like a current of water,
Refreshing, rhythmic and peaceful, yet strong, upholding and life giving
That love is like Nordic air, revitalising her soul and cleansing my mind.
The love she has with him tastes like Ghanaian stew,
So rich, flavourful, & nourishing.
But sometimes too spicy & powerful.
The love she has with him is like fresh, warm crunchy bread and Camembert,
Hearty, warming, gentle yet with texture;
Each mouthful moreish and delicious.
One love is rich red, burnt orange, bright amber…intense and warm and hot.
One love is turquoise, azure like the richest tropical ocean, strong and deep and refreshing.
Both loves are colourful, the colour one chooses is a matter of asking :
What colour do you want your life to be?
red-turqoise-e1515259385907.jpg
Photo: Pinterest

A poetry night

I took a dear friend to a Poetry event last week; we listened & watched poetry students share their work and then listened to the established, well-published poet of the eve be interviewed about his work & creativity….this is one of a few short poems I wrote as the evening unfolded:

A poetry night:

Soft blue lights on black-

Sophisticated sexy chic.

White spotlights bear down, interrogating our reactions;

Ensuring we are awake in the musky air,

Heavy with pretentious anticipation, appreciation, sweat and silent respect.

As we Listen…

And clink… & sip… & critique…

White faces watch and listen as white men speak.


Photo: Robert Peake

With You

One night last week I just couldn’t sleep, because words to a poem were swirling in my head and I was forced out of bed to capture them and write them down… and so for my birthday party a few days later, instead of making an impromptu speech (to avoid last year’s unplanned but hilarious reference to blow jobs!) I recited this poem for my dear ones:

WITH YOU, I stand warmly blanketed by the rich, thick tapestry of you all,
coloured brightly with different characters and ideas,
different views and learnings…

With You, I laugh at different pitches;
the full musical range of NLB dirty laugh to Natalia giggles,
In your company finding both home and release,
each of your unique lights illuminating a different side of my multi-faceted natalianess.

With You I am both punished and forgiven,
I am made weak and thereby made strong. Because with you I am exposed,
not possibly just by one, but by an all,
I am seen, I am heard,
I am endured, I am adored.

With You, my smile is stretched,
My intellect is fed; my soul is nourished,
my ideas are chiselled, and my being is flourished.

Your friendship tapestry is rich, & reflective,
you hold a mirror to my face and point out my character lines, so they can be refined,
and my beauty, so I can be admired.
With You, I am both humbled, and edified.

Above all.
With you, I am given the gift of…S.P.A.C.E.
For, though small, I am big.
With You I am given space- to flounder, and flap,
and spread my big Natalia wings…
and with you pushing me … I (fucking) fly.

NLB bday 2017

Lovers’ Garden

Wandering, chasing the blue dot through a maze of verdant beauty in Madrid,
I chose to cut through a grassy area, unlabelled and unnoticed, had the dot not compelled me to veer off the paved path-ironically simply to seek the grey dashed path the screen dictated.

Suddenly: a rich scene with sunlight dappling through the trees, lush grass and giant trees twinned like lovers greeted me.
And then, as if to reflect the trees, I spotted the lovers entwined in the grass, hidden, immersed in love’s joy & desire.

I realised love and desire had claimed this paradise before me.
And so, a quick selfie and I forced myself on, to seek the dot and leave these lovers in their hidden Eden.

Madrid park image

I’m Tired

I’m tired…

I’m tired of wanting, and not knowing what to ‘do’;

I’m tired of yearning, for a life that hasn’t come true.

I’m tired of pain that doesn’t ever go away;

Of waking deeply aching, aches that last all day.

I’m tired of not being able to fully, freely be me,

Without a ‘just kidding’ disclaimer for maddeningly sensitive peeps.

I’m tired of absent manners when I simply text to ask you;

‘Hey, this looks fun, would you like this too?’.

I’m tired of having to adapt for a culture that doesn’t budge for me;

I’m tired of being called ‘aggressive’ for simply having a view,

Or for speaking it with a PASSION with which bland folk don’t know what to do.

I’m tired that as I write, I have to censor myself, editing thoughts as I go,

Just because my character is too bold and sharp, more than people really know.

I’m tired of being disposable, to people who profess love for me,

I’m tired of words which are drowned in the silence of inaction’s vast sea.

And suppose I am tired of being tired,

Of finding it so tiring, just by trying to be me.

Tired

Holes

We are all-each of us small, flawed aching mortals-riddled with holes:

Love-shaped holes;

Health-shaped holes;

Holes shaped of broken relationships;

Purpose-shaped holes;

Child-shaped holes;

Work-shaped holes;

Holes of frustration and dissatisfaction;

Friendship-shaped holes;

Money-shaped holes;

Home-shaped holes;

And, a God-shaped hole.
The secret to unveil, the mystery reveal, the truth to share is this:

The God-shaped hole covers all of these-like a blanket made of water; as our hearts and minds are filled with God’s presence, He seeps into the other holes in us.

And in His subtle, special, splendid way we find that our holes are filled…

And ironically, we are ‘whole’.

I Cut My Hair

So, I wrote this after imagining being widowed – at least my morbid imagination is fuel for creativity…

‘I cut my hair. You’d hate it.

But “you’re” not “you” and you’re not here,

so why should I care-

now, it’s only hair.

A week ago, it was a *symbol* of devotion-an outward sign of my inward love;

running down my back- eagerly seeking the stroke of husband’s hands.

Now, it’s just wire, thread, wool, shorn, cut-off and dead on the hairdresser’s floor-

the *sign* switched off,

the Love spilled out with

no hands to catch it.

How suddenly death devalues everything-
it steals meaning from that which one didn’t even consider to get valued in the ‘before’.

And now is only the grey ‘after’-

Filled to bursting with the heaviness of nothingness,

and deafened by the clanging sound of memories and things raped of value:

Scraping shells which previously where hands Husband caressed;

No Man’s Land where previously lay Husband’s head.

And now, a bare neck,

previously draped with a wife’s thick locks to please her Love.

But you cannot please the dead.

So what was, in the ‘before’ an offering,

is now only hair-

And without your smile, your gaze your stroke.

I do not care.’
NLB

(Written 1.1.15)

I, the author, retain all rights-this cannot be published or performed without my express permission, nor shared or copied, etc without express recognition of my authorship.